


The Drowners

by IrisParry



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisParry/pseuds/IrisParry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kinkmeme prompt <em> Asha/Ros, "You're better than your brother."</em></p><p>Set during Asha's visit to Winterfell, so spoilers for Clash of Kings. If you're up to date with the show you're fine. Also at my <a href="http://irisparry.livejournal.com">livejournal</a>.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Ros feels a lump rise in her throat at the thought of Theon, of their last meeting and the fear in him, his need for soft words and the gentle guidance of her hands again, more a boy than the first time he'd come to her... but she pushes those thoughts aside, shifting her weight onto one hip and arching her back ever so slightly, because Asha's steps are drawing nearer.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drowners

They don't have female customers. Most folk would snort at the suggestion and assert a lack of demand: it's men whose lusts cannot be contained within a marriage or kept waiting through the lack of one. Ros knows better. Women don't come to the brothel, don't swagger down the street in their cups, hooting to their friends about how their purchase will scream in ecstasy, but Ros makes her occasional 'social call', sewing basket ostentatiously on her arm for cover, by discreet and surprisingly lucrative arrangement.

Asha Greyjoy has no such qualms about seeking what she wants. She paces, heavy salt-stained boots thumping on the boards, openly appraising the girls lined up before her. She's been in Winterfell only a day and yet the stories have spread like wildfire, this particular unladylike appetite only one of several attributed to her. Ros watches her, that slow, rolling gait, the swing to her hips, well-worn leathers molded to the curves of her body - slight but definitely there - and wonders that any mistake her for a man. She sees a little of Theon in the lean lines of Asha's face, in the wicked quirk of her mouth as her eyes rake over the flesh on show. 

Ros feels a lump rise in her throat at the thought of Theon, of their last meeting and the fear in him, his need for soft words and the gentle guidance of her hands again, more a boy than the first time he'd come to her... but she pushes those thoughts aside, shifting her weight onto one hip and arching her back ever so slightly, because Asha's steps are drawing nearer.

She's tall, the ironborn woman, but so is Ros and she holds Asha's gaze, cool as you like, letting a slow grin ease across her mouth and push her lips into a soft pout. Asha takes in Ros's insolent eyes, the spill of her breasts barely contained by deep green silk, her long fingers drumming at her hips, and says, "This one."

Asha pays for the whole night, but wastes no time when they repair to Ros's room, pushing Ros to sit on the bed, legs astride her, reaching around to unlace her bodice with deft hands. She makes no move for a kiss, and Ros takes the cue to wait and let her guest play out this initial rush of enthusiasm. She can't deny it pleased her more than usual to be chosen this time, by this strange, brazen woman, the one all Winterfell has whispered of since dawn. When Asha leans in Ros can still smell the sea on her, long days aboard ship mingling with the days ahorse from Deepwood Motte, sour sweat and cold wind.

Pulling Ros's corset free, Asha brings her hands around to cup her breasts, stroking her thumbs lightly across the nipples. Ros hums softly in a pleasure not entirely feigned, enjoying the change of pace from the usual clumsy, drunken custom that is her lot of late, with the winter town desolate. Sometimes she wishes she'd left when she had the chance, when carts were streaming south with Robert Baratheon and then with the Young Wolf's army; but Ros never saw herself as a camp follower, spreading her legs for a dozen stinking soldiers in the mud every night for a handful of coppers and a share of a meagre supper.

Asha looks down at her and smiles through fallen strands of dark hair. "Ah, now this is more like it," she breathes. "A woman cannot live on desperate, filthy soldiers alone."

Ros laughs, not expecting to, and a flush rises to her cheeks. "That she cannot, milady," she agrees, "My thoughts exactly." Asha keeps stroking and Ros leans into it, settling her own hands about Asha's hips and running them up to pull at the laces of her jerkin, feeling Asha's body relax into her touch. She steps up her pace and Asha lets her peel off the layers of leather and wool, no smallclothes beneath, lifting feet one by one so Ros can pull at her boots. The women who ask Ros to call do not live lives of idleness but they're none a match to the ironborn warrior. She's strong and supple, finely muscled, but swathed in a hint of softness now that her men's garb hides, the give at the waist, the curve at the hip. It sets a flutter deep in Ros's belly to be privy to her secrets.

Asha relieves Ros of her skirts briskly, rough hands pushing down the length of her legs, then she takes a hold on Ros's calves to tip her neatly onto her back, making her gasp in surprise. Asha grins rakishly, hooking Ros's legs over her shoulders and pressing swift kisses along her thigh. Her lips are chapped but warm and she follows them with teasing flicks of her tongue. Ros is used to people who want to please, but Asha's confidence and playfulness is delicious, neither desperate nor arrogant, and Ros feels the thrill of anticipation, of finding out a client has a spark of talent, that this might turn out interesting after all. 

Asha's kneeling, nosing between Ros's legs now, and she breathes deep, a soft growl in the back of her throat. She brings her hands around, palms flat against thighs, thumbs rubbing gently but insistently at Ros's folds, easing her way in. She licks long and slow at first, testing, a murmur of amusement escaping her when she finds Ros already damp, and Ros can feel her smile. Asha groans down into her, tongue pushing, tasting slow and deep and maddening, and Ros can't help but arch into it, thighs tensing, arse lifting. Sometimes the service Ros provides is letting others serve her and, gods, it's been too long since that was done well. Asha slips her hands beneath Ros to push her closer, jaw working, and then her tongue flits up to tease at the bud of Ros's flesh.

Ros gasps, sudden and genuine: Asha knows what she's doing, responds to every cant of Ros's hips, every hitch of her breath and shudder of muscle, slowing to draw out Ros's pleasure. She draws back, fingers replacing her tongue at Ros's cunt, and when Ros looks down through heavy-lidded eyes Asha's face is shining in the lamplight, her lips swollen and slick. "I will know if you try a piece of playacting, sweet thing," she says, low and mischievous.

Ros reaches down to paw at Asha's face, fingers unsteady across her cheek, in her hair. "Do I tell you how to steer a ship, milady?" she pants, knowing by now Asha chose her for a bit of front, and the other woman laughs.

"My brother visited you." It's not a question so Ros doesn't answer it, except with a quizzical raise of her eyebrow, a tilt of her hips to tempt Asha back to her task. She does not want to have this conversation, not least when she was enjoying herself just a second ago, but Asha's sure fingertips press a little firmer... Ros whimpers and pushes back in response, heat flaring through her anew, but Asha will have her answer.

"He did, and often," Ros grits out, half reluctant, half desperate to get this over with.

"Did you playact for him?"

"He is a fine man, but he doesn't have milady's skill." _There, is that what you wanted to hear?_ It's true, but it hurts her heart to say it.

Asha studies her for a moment, unreadable, but then her lips quirk and she's dropping back to put her mouth on Ros again, slipping two fingers to circle slowly inside her. Asha's breath is hot and heavy, the work of her tongue and fingers dizzyingly good, driving thoughts of Theon from Ros's mind. Her hands fist in the bedclothes, in Asha's hair, as she peaks in a drawn-out shudder, mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

Asha's face is smug when she crawls up Ros's body to kiss her lips, and Ros tastes herself there, sweet and salty. Ros reaches down, lingering over the firm curve of Asha's arse, and strokes her fingers between her legs, spreading the wetness she finds there, teasing back and forth. Asha grunts and breaks the kiss, shuffling forward to kneel above Ros, straddling her, and Ros needs no instruction to raise herself up on her elbows and push her face to her cunt. She works her mouth roughly, hungry and messy, and Asha seems to like it that way: she's breathing hard, throaty sounds scraping free of her lips, and she tightens her hands in Ros's hair. 

At the first tremble in her thighs Asha draws in a fast, deep breath and slaps at Ros's shoulder. "Your fingers," she orders, and Ros shifts her weight to push two up inside Asha, curling and twisting, pressing against her, keeping her tongue at the swollen nub. Asha bucks her hips, calling out curses in a shaking voice, but Ros holds steady, fucks her harder, feels her tighten and pulse. She doesn't know when she started squeezing her own legs together, rolling her hips, the taste of Asha, her uninhibited reactions and gutter mouth, making her heart quicken and her blood thrum in her cunt.

Asha collapses unceremoniously after she comes, turning her body to flop onto her back. Ros licks her lips, her fingers, breathing deeply through her nose, and catches Asha looking at her with a lazy smile. "Come here," she says and Ros cat-crawls up to lie next to her, twisting onto her side. She's about to ask if Asha's ready again, what she'd like, can't help running her eyes over her body - blushed red at the chest and slick with sweat - but Asha's touching her again, fingers easing inside, thumb rubbing in quick circles. "Not quite done, are you my dear," she drawls, bending her mouth to catch a nipple, "I can tell when someone's dying to sneak the other hand into their own britches." 

Ros has no smart comeback, not when Asha's teeth are dragging lightly at her nipple. her fingers stroking exquisitely, and she squeezes her eyes shut, grinding her body against Asha's hand as her climax rushes through her, pale spots of light dancing across her vision. 

Ros reclines contentedly after, watching Asha. She's made herself at home, wandering around the room picking up ornaments and swathes of silk for examination, naked and unselfconscious, sturdy but somehow graceful in her movements. She holds a cup of wine, taking the occasional gulp or refilling from the flagon on the dresser, another cup left for Ros by the bed, unasked. For all their swagger they're not selfish, these Greyjoy children, Ros thinks, and a wave of sadness crashes into her again as she remembers who this woman is. She goes for her wine and takes a good long pull, settling back against the pillows with a sigh.

"That's my little brother alright," Asha says, leaning against the window sill. "Forever making pretty women sigh and weep."

Ros doesn't see any point in denying her thoughts. "Did he recommend me?" she asks, fluttering her eyelashes innocently, and Asha barks out a laugh. 

"Prince Theon," she murmurs, rolling the edge of the cup against her cheek, staring at nothing. "Lord of Winterfell..." Asha suddenly looks very tired. Tired, and at once very old and very young. That look, and the wrench of pity in Ros's gut to see it, is painfully familiar. 

Theon sent for Ros just the once after taking Winterfell. She'd thought the guards who half-dragged her to the castle frightening until she saw his face, colour drained and eyes wide, flecks of spittle at the corners of his mouth. She'd knelt with a bowl and cloth to wash the blood from his hands, her own shaking so hard she nearly spilled the water, though he didn't seem to notice, no teases or japes. 

When she'd finished Theon had grabbed her wrists so suddenly and tightly she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming, grabbed her and looked at her with eyes so wild and strange Ros was sure he would strike her, would never stop, this wraith in the skin of the boy she knew: he grabbed her and looked and he kept looking, his chest starting to heave and his arms to shake, kept _looking_ , at her or through her, at something else she couldn't see, wouldn't want to see. After what seemed like hours she gingerly worked herself free, never taking her eyes from his, and with her hands and her lips and her body, gentle and slow, she did what she could to take him away from what he had done. 

When Ros woke from a brief and dreamless sleep her skin was damp where his face nestled against her, raw and red where he'd clutched at her as if he could hide inside her, lose himself for good, if he only tried hard enough. He lay unmoving for a long time after he came around, but when he stood his face closed like a trapdoor, and he turned his back on her to tell her to leave in a stranger's voice, to throw her fee to the floor for her to scrabble at like a beggar. 

Back in her own bed, curled on her side and bone-weary, she'd cried so hard it made her face ache. He has not sent for her again, though she knows Kyra from the tavern is installed up there now, an excitable girl and inexperienced, newly flowered while Theon was away in the Iron Islands. He'd barely laid eyes on her before. She doesn't know him like Ros does, but maybe that's the point.

She doesn't know why she tells Asha these things, doesn't know why the ironborn woman listens in silence instead of turning on her in anger for speaking of her brother so, or laughing her easy, throaty laugh at how pathetic they both are, her brother and his favourite whore. But she tells, slow and ponderous, and Asha listens, quiet and serious, and by the time Ros is done both flagons of wine are finished and Asha's head is lolling against Ros's shoulder.

"He wouldn't come with me," Asha says, her voice blurry as if it comes from far away, through dense, grey fog. "I told him he should have burned the place to the ground." 

Ros snorts, combing her fingers gently through the short hair at the back of Asha's neck. "Theon could never have done that," she says, and she thinks her heart might break at the that knowledge.

"His seat," Asha sighs, "And he means to hold it."

"Do you think he will?"

"Until the day he dies, my sweet. Until the day he dies."


End file.
